The Angel and the Warrior Page 4

  She reached out to Swift Hawk, and as she implored him, she sang:

  “By waters muddied, I will be,

  On grassy shorelines, come to me.”

  Swift Hawk tried to grab hold of her and envelop her within his arms, but she was too far away. He tried to speak—he formed the words in his mouth to do so. Before he could utter a word, her image had faded from view, and as quick as that, she was gone.

  Gone, too, was the music.

  And then, as though he had been dreaming, Swift Hawk opened his eyes and plummeted to the harsh truth of reality.

  Swift Hawk wanted her back. He physically ached with the need to see her again, so much so that the inspiration of nature, spread all around him, could not make up for her loss.

  But perhaps it was not hopeless. After all, he now knew what he had to do.

  As the mellow scent of burning sage drifted up to meet him, he realized what he would do.

  By muddied water—that would be E’ometaa’e, the Missouri River. By grassy shorelines—that had to be the white man’s fort that had been so recently built there. He would go to that place at once, for there was an anxiety within Swift Hawk he could little explain. He felt pulled toward that white man’s fort, as though some force urged him there.

  Moreover, that same force demanded quick action from him. He needed to get there swiftly now. The sense of urgency that swept through Swift Hawk could not be denied, even though it presented him with a bit of a problem.

  Traditionally a vision seeker was expected to return to his village to visit a holy man who would interpret the vision. But Swift Hawk’s village—the Cheyenne encampment that had raised him—was far away. It caused him, if only momentarily, something of a dilemma. Should he do as he had always been taught and return north to his village? Or should he abate this sense of urgency and travel farther south now?

  Being a man of action, it did not take Swift Hawk long to make his decision. He knew what he must do. After all, tradition must sometimes bend to the ways of the new. Plus, Swift Hawk felt no need to seek out a holy man to interpret his vision.

  He knew what it meant. That was enough.

  Truth to tell, the vision had restored within him a feeling of purpose. For the first time in a long while, Swift Hawk felt hope.

  It was a potent thing, this hope. Certainly it was more than he’d had eighteen years ago.

  Chapter Four

  [Fort Leavenworth] is the extreme outpost on the Western Frontier, and built, like several others, in the heart of the Indian country. There is no finer tract of lands in North America, or perhaps, in the world, than that vast space of prairie country, which lies in the vicinity of this post, embracing it on all sides.

  George Catlin

  Letters and Notes on the Manners, Customs, and Conditions of North American Indians

  Fort Leavenworth

  Lower Missouri River, Kansas Territory, Mid-April 1834

  “Oh no! How could you have applied for this job? You know nothing about it.” Pressing her lips together, Angelia frowned at her brother.

  “We need a refuge. We can’t stay here, even though this might be the hardest outpost to reach in the States. Eventually news of our escapade will reach here, as it did in all the other frontier towns, and then we’ll have a fight on our hands. Besides…” he held a book out to her, “…I’ve been reading this book on scouting, and I can tell you with certainty that I now know all there is to know about scouting. It’s all here in this book. Besides it’s only a little stretch of the truth to say that I scouted with the man who wrote this book.”

  “Oh, please…” Angelia barely gave the book a cursory glance.

  “Really. This fellow, John Bogart, see he was a mountain man before he became one of the greatest scouts for the government. It’s all here. I’ve read it cover to cover. Why, there’s nothing to it. I’m a good shot; I can tell direction. What could go wrong?”

  “There could be many things that could go wrong, and I—”

  “Ah, would you quit barkin’ at a knot?”

  “But to actually tell them you have scouted with John Bogart—”

  “Shhhh.” He pulled Angelia into an alleyway behind a building, thus taking themselves out of the general traffic within the fort. “Do you want someone to hear you?”

  Angelia stamped her foot. “You lied! Don’t you understand? What if this fellow comes here and calls you out? Have you thought of that? He’s not dead, is he?”

  “Please, please, would you lower your voice?”

  She gulped. “Yes, yes, of course I will.”

  “Besides,” continued Julian, “Bogart won’t come here. The real John Bogart is a free trapper nowadays, living somewhere in the Montana territory. Who knows? He might even be dead, and that’s not so far-fetched. It is said that the Indians in that territory—Blackfeet, I think they are—are a terror. Trust me.”

  “I do. You know that. It’s just that I don’t think a person—any person—can learn all there is to know about a job—and especially one like scouting—from a book. It’s a skill, isn’t it? And being a skill, doesn’t it require practice?”

  “I have practiced a lot. I got us here, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but don’t you need more real experience than that? Don’t you need to have actually led a wagon train?”

  “Pshaw, how am I supposed to get experience if I don’t try this? Really, it can’t be that difficult. Look at the Indians. They do it. And they’re uneducated.”

  “Dear Lord…” Closing her eyes, Angelia took a deep breath and counted to ten before saying, “The Indians have lived here for so long that the land and their sense of direction is a part of their blood, and—”

  “Then what you’re really telling me is that your brother is not as bright as the natives who have never stepped foot inside a schoolhouse?” He set his lips in a scowl. “Is that right?”

  “No! Oh no. Please don’t misunderstand me.”

  Julian’s chin shot up in the air. “I don’t think I am.”

  “Oh, for goodness’s sake. Don’t go putting strange meaning to my words. All I’m trying to explain is that we’re in enough trouble as it is, and we surely don’t need more. You know what Papa says about lying and the devil’s work, and this fib will eventually be found out.”

  “Aha!” Julian raised an arm and pointed a finger directly at her. “So what you’re really saying is that you don’t believe in me.”

  “No, no.” Angelia sighed. “I trust you. I believe in you. But please try to see reason.” She placed her hand over Julian’s. “Books can only impart a theory of knowledge—how to do something—not the action that goes along with it. There is often much more to know about something than the mere theory.”

  Julian rolled his eyes.

  Angelia continued speaking, as though she hadn’t seen the look or witnessed his attitude. “For instance, what if there’s some part of scouting that requires a particular skill, and it isn’t covered by that book?”

  Julian crossed his arms and set his feet apart, taking a stance. “There isn’t. It’s all here.”

  “Can you be sure? And what if there is such a thing and you don’t know about it, and yet everyone else does? You will be found out. And if you are found out, you will have to explain why you’re pretending to be someone you are not.”

  “Pshaw. Won’t happen. Like I said, this book—”

  “But it could happen.”

  “It won’t.”

  Angelia’s expression stilled, then she straightened her spine. “I must protest. This is not some cute little game we’re playing. Now, please, go over there…” she pointed toward the back of a low building, “…and quit while you have the chance.”

  Julian posed stubbornly. “I will not. It’s my good luck that the scout they originally hired can’t make the trip—fell and broke his leg or something. Listen to me, they’re desperate, and they want me.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll admit the
wagoners did hire a couple of Indians to help with the scouting, but you know the general opinion of Indians in these parts. Friendly or not, no one trusts them or understands them. Actually…” Julian dropped his voice, as though he were only now realizing this himself, “…feelings between the whites and the Indians run a little deeper and a little more hostile than that. Besides, I’ve only just got the job. I’m not gonna quit.”

  “Oh please. You really must think about this. What if Papa were to find out?”

  Perhaps it was because he was the son of a minister that Julian Honeywell looked away from his sister, shifting his feet uneasily, if only for a moment. But when he spoke, whatever call to conscience there had been—if there had been any—was not to be witnessed upon his countenance. “So what? What else are we going to do? The only reason we’re here is to escape the bounty that was offered against our capture.”

  “But Papa is handling all that for us.”

  “Is he? And how is he handling it?”

  “You know that he’s going to the authorities—”

  “Without us being there?”

  Angelia frowned. “Come now, you must realize we can’t be there. We’ve been discovered in every town, every city we’ve landed in, and no lawyer’s been able to bail us out. Someone, somewhere, really wants us found. You don’t suppose Elmer Riley—that big plantation owner—is behind this, do you?” Her frown deepened. “Is there more that happened in Mississippi? Something that I don’t know? Please, if there’s more than simply a girl…”

  Julian faced away from her, his expression lost to her.

  She continued, “Papa’s lawyers think they can make a case without us being there. But you know all this, and that Papa’s case, stating that we were acting in self-defense, will show that we didn’t commit murder.”

  “Yes. But.” Julian raised an eyebrow. “Papa is pleading to the authorities where?”

  “In Washington.”

  “That’s right,” said Julian, “in Washington…which will have about as much authority in the South as a Japanese samurai in the state of Virginia.”

  Angelia let out her breath. “Julian, please listen to reason. You can’t do this.”

  “Well, I am.”

  “But—”

  “End of argument. I’ve stood your tirades this long, and I won’t stand it any longer. We need to leave this garrison and get ourselves to Santa Fe.”

  “But—”

  Her pleas landed on deaf ears. Julian had already turned his back on her and was marching off in the opposite direction.

  Darn! How did he do it? How did he manage to twist the facts around until he had her feeling as though she were some loathsome creature? One who particularly liked to tax her brother’s charms?

  As Angelia watched her brother pace away, she pulled her bottom lip into a worry line. Darn, darn and double darn. This scouting business was a fine mess—definitely not what she wanted to do.

  What she really wanted to do was to go back to Mississippi, confront the authorities, tell them what had happened—that the whole matter had been an accident, an incident of self-defense—take whatever was coming to her and be done with it.

  But she couldn’t do that. Not now. Not after discovering what else Julian had done, back there in Mississippi. Goodness knows he’d be hung on sight.

  How could he have done it, she wondered for the umpteenth time. How could he have set out to win the daughter of Elmer Riley, the richest plantation owner in Mississippi? Of course, Julian’s intentions had been good. Of course he had meant to marry the girl. But that didn’t excuse him being alone with her—without a chaperone—for an entire hour.

  But nothing had come of it, had it?

  Why, oh why had he picked Elmer Riley’s daughter?

  Certainly the girl was winsome, but the father… Truth be told, the mere presence of Mr. Riley anywhere near her caused Angelia to flinch. The looks he gave her, the stares—as though she were some bargain in a bootlegger’s auction.

  Even now, the simple act of thinking of the man sent shivers up and down Angelia’s spine.

  But all that was behind them. After all, the man’s influence over them had surely ended when she and Julian had crossed the state line. Or had it?

  If that were so, why were she and Julian still on the run, still trying to escape the authorities?

  Angelia sighed. She had no answers to this, and perhaps a hundred other questions.

  Upon reflection, Angelia considered that perhaps their troubles did not really concern Elmer Riley, his daughter or the state of Mississippi. No, perhaps the actual problem was Julian himself.

  He hadn’t been telling her the complete truth when a month ago he had confessed to arranging a duel in order to defend their father’s honor. Indeed, that match had been devised as much to protect his own honor as that of their father’s, something Julian had kept neatly hidden from her until recently.

  And now, here he was, off to scout for some wagon train that was leaving for Council Grove in a week or so, there to meet up with other merchants who would be making the spring trek into Santa Fe.

  Scouting, of all things—an occupation he knew nothing about.

  As a sense of unreality swept over her, Angelia wondered, as she had often done in her past, if there had been some accident at her birth. Had some other woman borne a child at the same time as her mother, allowing for a switch of infants?

  If it were true, it would explain several moments in her life when she had felt completely foreign to her own family. Although, if she were to be fair, she might admit that perhaps she took after her mother. She couldn’t be sure, of course, since her mother had died shortly after giving birth to Julian.

  Angelia drew in a deep breath. Well, what was done was done. She couldn’t change it; she couldn’t change Julian. Upon that note, she decided there was little more she could do—at least not at present—and she spun away from the sight of her brother’s retreating back.

  Without noticing where she was going, she took a few steps forward…only to ram straight up against a firm—and naked—male chest. Well, it was practically naked.

  “Excuse me,” she said, before realizing to whom she was speaking. It was an Indian—a very tall Indian, she was quick to note. And a handsome one—in an exotic sort of way, she decided, as she looked up into the man’s face.

  As though beside herself, she became lost in the gaze of this man’s dark, almost black eyes. Worse, as a unique scent of mint, smoke and clean masculinity assailed her, her head spun oddly for a moment.

  Goodness, what were these feelings? Was she frightened? Yes, yes, that must be it, for he did appear to be fierce.

  But she didn’t really feel scared, did she? Although perhaps she should be so.

  Nevertheless, in less time than it takes to tell it, she beheld everything about him. Midnight-black hair fell almost to his waist, and the top section of those dark strands was bound back from his face, gathered together and tied with rawhide and eagle feathers, the latter of which fell down toward the back of his head. A beaded ornament, in a long single strand, drooped forward on each side of his face, and earrings made of pink shells hung from each of his earlobes. A necklace, sporting blue, red and yellow beads with a large pink shell placed in the middle of it, looped around his neck.

  The effect was hardly what one might expect of a man who wore earrings. This man was masculine beyond belief. Masculine, hard, ungiving. And at present, he frowned at her.

  She ignored his frown and went on with her study of him. His cheekbones were high, his eyebrows defined, tapering ever so slightly. His nose was straight, although a little aquiline, and his lips were full and pouting at her.

  In his hand, if she dared look down that far, he carried something—a pipe. And though his chest was bare, it was hardly less decorated. An ornament, which seemed to be a beaded breastplate made of bone and long-sized shells, hung over the wide expanse of the man’s chest, covering but not quite hiding all that har
dened flesh.

  She wanted to, but knew she mustn’t, study the length of him, since she was afraid of what nudity she might discover there.

  To her horror, the thought of exactly what she might find there brought on a dizzying flurry of irrational emotion. Hardly the sort of musings for a well-brought-up young lady, she decided.

  Swallowing hard, Angelia gazed back up at the man, realizing for the first time that his countenance was unwelcoming. So it was with some degree of courage that she met the rancor in his eyes with what she pretended was an equal malice of her own.

  She didn’t say a word, she simply stared at him, until at last she could stand it no more, and she turned away from the man—at least she almost did so.

  And then she wondered, did the Indian speak English? And if he did, had he heard what she and Julian had been discussing?

  As one thought followed upon another, it became clear to Angelia that if this man did speak English, and if he had eavesdropped on their discussion, would he carry tales to Colonel Davenport, the commander of this fort?

  Drat!

  Well, as her father had often said, there was no time like the present for action. Angelia cleared her throat. “Excuse me, sir, but how long have you been standing here?” She tried to smile at him girlishly.

  If the man was affected by her, he didn’t show it. He simply raised his chin and didn’t utter a sound.

  Angelia cleared her throat once more, twisting her shoulders in a self-conscious gesture. “I see,” she said, pretending he had spoken to her. She held on to her smile for a moment longer. “And do you speak English?”

  Once again, the man didn’t answer, didn’t grant her the dignity of looking at her. Indeed, he gazed beyond her. Worse, he acted as though it were beneath his respectability to even be seen with her, let alone be caught conversing with her.

  “Ah, well, that’s very good, isn’t it?” she remarked, losing any trace of her smile. “And might I wish you a pleasant day too. Such a sociable person, I dare say.”

  With a short nod, Angelia picked up her skirts and prepared to leave. She had stepped a foot forward when the Indian spoke up at last. “That man—” He caught her glance as she looked back at him, and he lifted his chin in the general direction where Julian had disappeared. “He is hiding?”